From Want to Need: Redux
by a certain slant of light
Summary: A night of unfortunate happenstance leads Ashe into an age of new focus. Unfortunately, that focus is on someone rather stubborn. [BaschAshe][REWRITE]
1. Rat's Lair

**Author's Note:** Some of you may recall that in the eighth chapter of "From Want to Need," I said the following: "…with will and time permitting, I hope to rewrite it and lengthen the chapters to 3,000 to 5,000 words each." Yes, dear readers. The time is now.

That being said, this won't just be a cheap make-over. I'm not just slappin' some fancy new adjectives in here and calling it a show. "I can't believe it's not real Genetix!" I'm gonna try to add some new plot points, etcetera in here. Hopefully, that'll include a saucy little love triangle, or at least some side pairings. The opening chapters will be much the same, though.

Updating on this will be sketchy. Rewriting this story is going to be a side project, for the most part. Right now I'm extremely strung out from exam stress and the like, and I can't formulate new ideas to save my life. I actually find myself in this rut surprisingly often, and when I do I will try my best to write for this story. It's just a lot easier, and I'm getting tired of writing porn (for the moment anyway).

So, all that out of the way, I really hope you enjoy the second version of "From Want to Need." Some chapters will be combined, some will be split, and I guess you'll just have to read and find out about the rest! Thank you for reading it the first time, and thank you for reading it a second!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Final Fantasy XII nor any of its corresponding characters, settings, etc. **This applies to all current and upcoming chapters.**

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"Rat's Lair"

The soles of Ashe's shoes slapped along the cobblestones of the Garamsythe Waterway. The like noises of Basch's boots behind her announced his presence, wary and protecting. The clicking of their heels echoed through the sewer, one with the sounds of rats scuttling and water flowing down the walls. Steel hissed as Ashe withdrew her sword, weaving through the labyrinthine mess of walkways as if she'd been there a hundred times prior.

"How do you think the others are faring?" Ashe ventured to ask. They had left the party exactly an hour ago, surety in the eyes of her companions. She had every ounce of faith in the; weeks spent together proved their capability. But, like any queen would worry about her people, she fretted nonetheless.

"I'm sure they're doing very well," Basch assured her, knuckles flexing around the hilt of his axe. The Rabanastran underground had a way of making people edgy, even if the Waterway was full of nothing but bats and toads. "I've been told Vaan has done this before."

Ashe nodded. Vaan was often alight with tales of his delinquency, especially around the campfire. He'd recounted numerous iterations of the night they'd met, growing only more fanciful as time went on. "The night of the fete. I was foolish to think they wouldn't be expecting an attack by the resistance."

Basch said nothing in return, instead clearing his throat and changing the subject. He had never been very good at assuring people, women most of all. He was a warrior, not a confidante. "How did you acquire a contact in the consul's palace?"

"After Archadia claimed Rabanastre, the servants of the palace were permitted to continue working there. Plenty of them accepted and became spies for the resistance. We've had an ear on the goings-on ever since. However, the tradeoff is that they're not allowed to leave the palace. In order to get the map, we have to go to them." Vayne had expected the servants' betrayal, of course, but he wasn't a callous man. Dalmascans would feel uneasy if suddenly everyone in the palace wound up missing or dead.

Basch understood, remembering the purpose of their endeavor: to sneak into the servants' quarters and acquire a map for the insurgence. It was a simple plan, he knew, but he felt his muscles clench with unease. Vayne had expected their attack the night of the fete, so what would stop him from expecting it now? He was a clever man, cunning as well. For every spy in the palace there had to be ten in any other part of Rabanastre. Lowtown was probably teeming with them, which was where they'd orchestrated this mission. They had been careful to keep their presence concealed, to speak in hushed tones. But every cautionary action might still not be enough to trick a Solidor…

Ashe's voice interrupted his redundant train of thought. "Usually, we'd be able to communicate and transport scripts by carrier birds, but the consul's placed a strict order on that recently." She smirked. "I believe he's becoming uneasy."

"I can hardly blame him," Basch muttered. To be facing the resistance was to be facing Ashe herself, and that was no small feat. At the thought, there was an echo of a sting on his cheek, where she had slapped him. No small feat, indeed.

They rounded a corner, stepping into the darkness for a moment. They were alone, only the sound of their boots and the occasional screech of a bat to accompany them. Suddenly, a sound graced Basch's ear. It was empty, echoing along the moist walls with mechanical grace.

"Your majesty…"

Stepping back into the dim firelight, they stopped cold. Before them stood a company of imperial guards. Water dripped from the roof, splashing onto steel armor. The metallic resonance struck a familiar chord in Basch, and he wanted to hit himself for not realizing sooner.

"Ah, Princess Ashe," a voice cooed from behind the formation, smooth as black marble. It seemed to permeate the stifled din, dipping between the sound of rats' claws on stone and water droplets. "You never cease, do you?"

Ashe gritted her teeth and held her sword out, planting her feet squarely and preparing for a confrontation. There was no way their meeting was a coincidence; the Garamsythe Waterway had a leak in more ways than one. Still, his appearance unnerved her. Even after the fete's little rebellion, he hadn't come to her in person.

"To think, you honor me again with your presence, Vayne."

He stepped through the assembly of armored men, demeanor coolly relaxed. His gaze sparkled with menace, flooding from his eyes and stretching his lips into a grin. "Come to pay your respects to your consul?"

To Basch's surprise, Ashe spat at his feet. Vayne glanced distastefully at the toe of his shoe, saliva splattering steel.

"Hardly," she said. Her eyes narrowed, matching his for wicked intent.

The consul chuckled, laughter bubbling through the thick air. "I see." He loftily waved a hand; the handful of guards on either side of him kneeled, revealing yet more behind them with drawn bows and steady firearms. Whirling around, Ashe and her companion were faced with another small company of guards, each wielding glaives, crossbows and guns. Apparently Vayne had learned from their last encounter, and was taking no chances (or prisoners) this time around.

Despite herself, Ashe winced. Even if Fran, Balthier, Vaan and Penelo were all here, they'd have trouble escaping with their lives. At least a dozen imperials barricaded each side, faces hidden behind placid helmets. It would take a miracle to do away with half of them, and then there was the matter of Vayne himself.

Ashe said nothing, but considered her options. If she lunged for Vayne, she would be riddled with bulletholes before her blade grazed him. If she and Basch went directly for the row of firearms, a spear would be lodged in her throat before she slew three men. A direct attack to the swordsmen was out of the question, unless she wanted to be a pin cushion for arrows.

For a moment, the only sounds filling the air were the metallic clank of armor against armor, and the click of pistols' safeties flicking off. Again, Vayne's deep snicker broke through the silence.

"Now, this is familiar."

Out of blind rage, Ashe prepared to lunge at him, but Vayne was quickly guarded by another faceless man in heavy armor. The hulking metal behemoth dared her to come forward, broadsword held firmly in its gloved hand. Basch placed a calming hand on her shoulder, stopping her from making a mistake.

"Coward!" she cursed, words twisting around the shielding soldier. "Fight me yourself!"

"I think, considering your position, your wisest move would be to put down your weapons," Vayne drawled, ignoring her. His voice seemed to emanate from the imperial, but no one could mistake it. A tone like that came only from a snake like Vayne – which seemed appropriate, considering how the words slithered off his tongue.

Ashe's eyes narrowed to slits, and Basch's grip on her shoulder tightened. "He's right," the captain told her. "We've no other choice."

Knuckles white with fury, Ashe slowly knelt and placed her sword on the ground at her feet, watching Basch do the same from the corner of her eye. Her fingers itched to tear out the consul's throat, begging to draw his blood. She curled her hands into fists, hoping that would be enough to stifle the murderous urge.

Vayne laughed again; Ashe felt that if she was forced to endure that vile noise one more time, she would snap. The rope binding her fury was unraveling quickly, her mind fraying. "Remind me to never overestimate you, princess."

Ashe glared but said nothing. Her nails bit into the palm of her hands, drawing her blood. With every fiber of her body, she wished it were his.

Giving a curt nod, Vayne motioned for the guards to overtake them. Both Ashe's and Basch's arms were immediately seized by imperials, and a knee to her back forced her to kneel. Vayne approached, looming over her with dulcet arrogance.

"As I recall, the last time we had you on an imperial ship, it exploded."

Ashe wondered if prattling on pointlessly was Vayne's selected torture device. If that were true, she'd rather be whipped. "What of it?"

He sniggered again, a noise like nails grating granite. It echoed in the shell of her ear, driving her further into madness.

"Twice we've tried to capture you, and twice you've eluded us. I see no point in delaying your punishment for Nalbina any longer."

Ashe was about to reply when a fist impacted squarely in her abdomen, expelling her breath. She coughed for a moment, completely surprised. Behind her, she could hear Basch struggling and cursing Vayne's name. Ignoring him, Vayne brought another punch to Ashe's stomach, and another, and another. Pain spidered along her nerves, veins like rivers of fire. Warmth curdled where he'd hit, the last sensation she wanted. He hit her again and she felt a rib snap, a sickening crack bouncing off the waterway walls.

After a short while, Vayne paused, observing his fingers. "You know, I don't normally like to sully my hands with such degrading work." He looked at her, eyes dancing wickedly. "But for the queen of Dalmasca, I would gladly make an exception."

"Imperialist swine!" she yelled. She felt his knee lodge itself between her ribs. Another splitting pop resounded, and she bit her tongue until it bled – simply to spare him the satisfaction of hearing her scream. Blinking and biting back painful tears, she only allowed herself to wince as he continued, laying blows to stomach and face. Her cheeks swelled, littered with bruises and gashes. Blood flowed freely down her face, cascading down her neck in thin red rivulets. Speckles of scarlet seeped into her clothing, a disgusting game of connect-the-dots.

The beating seemed to go on for an eternity before Vayne nodded to the guards and they released her. She landed in a crumpled heap, a messy pile of limbs. She tried to flex her fingers but they lay immobile, slick with blood and water.

"Bastard!" she heard Basch in the distance. She supposed that he had been subjected to the whole thing, and absentmindedly wondered exactly how long it had gone on. She could bear to be beaten, but having him watch was a humiliation she'd hoped never to suffer.

"Really," Vayne droned. "It is almost dirty for a _traitor_ to call me such a thing."

Ashe couldn't see, but she recognized the sound of a sword being unsheathed. She could only stare blankly at the far wall, damp and moldy, as she heard Basch curse him again, before he was interrupted by the sickening sound of metal slicing into flesh. Droplets of blood flew across her field of vision, a few hot dollops splashing onto her face. A streak of red seemed to split the wall, vibrant against the dull stone. The sound of a heavy man collapsing echoed through the passageway.

Ashe observed as Vayne turned to leave, eyes only open enough to stare at his feet. They shone in the sparse light of the sewer, but she was satisfied to see her spit gleaming on the toe of one.

An imperial halted him, asking, "Sir, are we to just leave them here?"

Vayne shrugged. "They'll never be found." The finality of the statement was hollowing. He swiveled gracefully and began wandering off. Obediently, the company of twenty-something guards marched after him in two uniform rows, metal suits chiming in the darkness. Their footsteps echoed for yards, the consul leaving the princess and her captain to die among the rats.


	2. Bloodway

**Author's Note:** Since I didn't before (not formally at least), I'd just like to welcome old and new readers alike. A great big hug to those returning, and also one to those visiting for the first time! And, oh yeah, there's definitely going to be some Basch/Ashe/Balthier goodness up in here. To those BalAshe shippers out there, I've got the rewrite of my old story "Words of Comfort" up, now titled "The Beauty of Being Wrong," and a rewrite of "Thaw This Frost" will be up in a day or two.

**Guys, I know this isn't our first run-through, but reviews are greatly appreciated!**

And remember, kids: You ski down the K-13, you're gonna have a bad time.

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"Bloodway"

Ashe was oblivious to how much time passed before she found the strength to speak. The echo of Vayne's boots had long since faded, and she was deaf to the rats squealing around her feet. Her voice was hoarse, the urge to vomit strong as the sting of blood on her tongue.

"Basch?"

She heard a groan not far from her and, despite her shrieking muscles, pushed herself onto her forearms. Her head felt heavy, her cheek cold from resting against the waterway's floor. Basch was lying on his back, a wide gash spread from one shoulder to the other. Blood seeped from the wound, staining his clothes and pooling around his body. His face was contorted in anguish.

Mouth open in a silent scream, Ashe crawled towards him. The few inches or so took what seemed like eons; her stomach would clench and tighten, and she would hunch over to cough up blood. Collapsing on top of him with her head on his abdomen, she reached gentle fingers to test the depth of his wound. His body convulsed; it was not as bad as it looked. It was painful, but it would take hours before he could die of blood loss. She knew that had been Vayne's intent: a slow, agonizing death. A sick lump formed in her throat, dropping to the pit of her stomach at the thought of Archadia's putrid prince.

"Lady Ashe?" his voice grated her ears, but appeased the beast in her stomach.

Leaning over him, the true dreadfulness of their situation dawned upon her. "They won't expect us back for hours," she told him. Ashe pictured the others, above ground and waiting: Vaan shifting impatiently, Penelo pacing, Balthier fingering the filigree of his pistol and Fran sitting idly nearby – all of them without so much as a bloody handkerchief as a clue.

Knowing they'd both be dead by then, him from blood loss and her from internal bleeding, he nodded grimly. "This is it then." It was odd to hear those words; defeat did not become him. But it was not defeat, she supposed, just acceptance that this time, there really was no escape but death.

Blinking back frustrated tears, she said nothing but lay her head on his chest. She knew they both had a few hours, but they would probably be unconscious long before that. Aware she had little chance of escaping the situation alive, she put panic out of her mind and concentrated on his heartbeat. It was a steady, heavy drumming that helped beat back the paranoia desperately clinging to her heart.

What will death be like? she wondered. Though she had feigned hers years before, she never thought about it. She always entertained the naïve idea that, no matter what the odds, Dalmasca would rise again and conquer Archadia, and she would reign on an ivory throne, as her father had intended. But now, with the skeletal fingers of Lord Death at her throat, she thought of how it might feel to sit on a throne of jet, ruler of no one, servant to the Gods and helplessly staring up at Dalmasca as it fell further into the hands of the Empire.

There was suddenly a grave insignificance to everything she had done, as if a fog had lifted from her mind and let her see the truth. She had gambled so freely her life, ignorant of how heavily the insurgence relied upon it. Would the others continue without her? Without Basch? Would Vaan, the boy who had no idea what he wanted of life, emerge a hero and save their nation? Balthier would turn his head and scoff, Fran with him. Perhaps Penelo would fight, but she was young and inexperienced – she would die. They would all die, just as Ashe was dying now.

There was a great throbbing in her head. Ashe shut her eyes tightly, and when she opened them, she could not remember of what she had been thinking. Basch let out a sharp groan – then the waterway was silent once again.

For some reason, her thoughts flew to her childhood. She remembered being introduced to Basch for the first time when she was six-years-old. He had been twenty-three at the time and quite handsome. She supposed that hadn't changed, even with age. His hair was longer, his face marred by battle and torture. But she could see the same devotion to his country in his eyes, and hear the same loyalty on his tongue when he spoke.

She recalled meeting him again and again when she went to the training grounds when she was eleven, then twelve, thirteen, and so on. She went more often than was necessary or even proper for a princess. She went until her arms felt like strings, waving lazily at her side, too worn and weak to hold a sword anymore. But she continued to go, even after her father locked her in her room. She found ways out, for she was crafty, and sparred deep into the night, then awoke early in the morning to begin it all again. As such, she was a stronger princess than most, with more muscle than the boys at court found appealing. But such trivial things did not matter; Ashe did not want a court boy, weaned on ambrosia and more adept at wielding a salad fork than a broadsword. She had her young eyes on someone much more worthy.

If it wouldn't have invoked such pain, she would have chuckled at the memory: Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg had been her very first crush.

She remembered the early days of her teens. When she began sneaking off on hunting trips with the captain and his men, her father put his foot down. She was forced to spend more and more time in court, learning the fine arts of etiquette and embroidery. It all seemed horribly tedious, but she found ways of distracting herself, which often resulted in elaborately botched needlepoint peacocks.

Despite her no-nonsense personality, she indulged in idling away the many dull hours at court with fantasies of wedding the captain. She had imagined the many ways he'd proclaim his love for her, a generous amount of the daydreams being melodramatic damsel-in-distress situations (though in half of them, it was she playing the rescuer). It was ridiculous, she knew, but at least she had that sense of teenage normalcy. Other girls did that sort of thing all the time, between chasing chickens or helping their fathers at market – while poor Ashe was stuck inside, learning the difference between a soup spoon and a dessert spoon, and why it was terrible manners to mistake the two.

Then, when she was fifteen, her engagement to Rasler was announced. It came as a shock even to her, but her father looked upon her with warm eyes, as if it was the greatest gift he'd ever given. Ashe had to admit Rasler was not a bad choice: he was an excellent hunter and commanded a great army, and was renown in Nabradia for his archery skills. Perhaps, had she not been so enamored with _another_ military man, she might have fallen for Rasler first.

She did not realize it at the time, but as the wedding loomed nearer, she gradually pushed Basch out of her mind, and thus farther away from her. When she snuck off to hunt, it was with Vossler's party, and it was with him she trained. When the captain invited her for a sparring session, she stuck up her nose and said no, that simply wouldn't do, as she had an urgent lesson in doily-making that couldn't be delayed. Her father thought this was wonderful behavior, overjoyed Ashe was playing the part of the princess, not the page.

But when Rasler did not return from Nalbina, Ashe's quiet snubbings turned to outright hatred. They had been no match, something the entire country knew, just as they knew the captain was at no fault. That didn't seem to matter; when she looked at Basch, she saw only Rasler's face, the face of a man she was finally growing to love. And through that, she saw Basch's apologetic eyes, and more loss than she could bear.

That was when she absorbed herself in politics and forgot entirely about etiquette and table settings. There was war to be waged, revenge to be wrought, and a beast deep within her that thirsted for the blood of her enemies, the justice of her people.

The day her father died and Basch was declared a traitor, the demon howled so loud the moon shook and the boughs of trees bent in fear. She was a woman wronged, a girl grown up too soon, a princess denied love and stripped of trust. With all her love taken from her, Ashe felt only hate, hot in her veins, pumped hard by a heart of stone. What love was left was for her country, but even that was shadowed by her consuming hatred and the blood she yearned to see pour from Archadia's walls as it had poured from her father's chest.

And Basch, she hoped, was still alive, only so that she could find and kill him herself. He was the embodiment of her loyalty, her devotion, her love – she would see him bleed before her while she cried revenge, dark and hateful.

But what did she think of him now? Though she could not bear to look at him, she could feel him beneath her, his breathing heavy. She tried to picture him, lively, but saw him as she knew he looked now: blood speckling his lips, scar stretching across his forehead – but still his face was stern, ageless.

How far they had come, risen, fallen. To think she had once yearned for this, stoked the fire that demanded this man lie torn and dead at her feet. Now she wished for nothing but for him to live, even if she didn't: he could continue the insurgence; without either of them, the rebellion was a lifeless corpse, full of blood but without a heart.

Her heart, beating so slowly, was for once devoid of hate. She thought Basch had killed Rasler, but in reality, he had saved him. He brought his body back to Rabanastre, where he could receive a proper burial and wake attended by those he loved. If nothing else, Basch allowed her late husband those final prayers of respect. In the afterlife, Rasler could look on happily, knowing he had been in the presence of those who adored him and whom he in turn adored. He would not rot in an Archadian cell, or hang from a cage while ravens pecked at his hollowed bones.

No, she couldn't hate Basch. Not when she was lying on top of him, dying with him. He who had tried to save her husband and failed. He who had tried to save her father and failed. And now, he had who had tried to save her and failed. She realized that she had no small inkling of how it might feel to be Basch fon Rosenburg, who held duty in such high regard, but whose charges met only death. She knew solely that she did not want him to die a guilty man.

Hesitantly, she raised a hand to his jaw. It was prickly and sharp, but dulled by dried blood. Jerking away in surprise, he glanced down to see it was she what had touched him, expecting perhaps a blade – certainly not the fingers of his lady liege.

"My lady?"

"I forgive you," she told him, her voice a croak of sincerity, "and I thank you."

Basch's eyes grew wide, white saucers against the dull grey of the waterway, but he said nothing – merely nodded. All at once, from the look of relief in his eyes, Ashe felt her long dead crush seep into her, demanding the attention it was deprived in her gawky teenage years. It was a pleasant feeling, like the waters of a hot bath splashing over the demon within her, swelling in her veins and heart. She couldn't help it, strangely nor did she want to – if she were going to die on this night with this man, choking on blood and the stifling stench of regrets… Well, there was one she could cough out before Death's hand closed for good. Perhaps if she didn't, the girl inside would never forgive her, and that just wouldn't do.

Had she a more awakened sense of self, she would have questioned if her motives were born of real emotion or merely the desperation of death. But at the moment, it seemed the farthest concern from her mind – the present one being how on earth she was going to haul herself toward him.

Agonizingly but with resolve, she pulled herself further onto him until her chest rested against his and their eyes met. His look was one of curiosity and confusion. Light bounced off his cheeks, reflected off fresh blood that oozed from a gash in his cheek. A sharp hiss as her hand pressed too hard on his chest; she clumsily mumbled apologies, adjusting herself. Then, without warning, she lowered herself until her lips were flush against his. Her eyes fluttered closed, while his widened in surprise. Her tongue begged entrance; she would taste nothing but the coppery tang of blood, but dismissed it.

To her chagrin, he gripped her shoulders and pushed her back. "Your Highness!"

Ignoring him, she trailed kisses from his jaw down to the nape of his neck, enjoying his scent that slipped through the heady stench of blood. It was all that surrounded her, and as her senses grew hazier (all but the piquant sensations of her lips), it became easier to ignore. Instead she desperately sought his aroma, clinging to it as her lips made a light path to his collarbone.

"Your Highness!" he repeated, scandalized. She was forced to stop when he grasped her shoulders again, despite his pain, and gently shoved her away.

"What?" she breathed.

"Please, you aren't well." She could hear the words crushed out between his teeth, his jaw clenched, his hand splayed over his wound.

Strangely, she felt no sympathy. Rather, she felt as if she might explode. "Pardon me?"

"You've lost a lot of blood," he said, as if she didn't know. "It might affect your judgment."

Aback, Ashe no longer felt as if she was in the Garamsythe Waterway, internal organs betraying her as they slowly drained away her life force; she felt like a little girl laid flat on her back in a sparring session, young squires jeering and mocking from the fence on which they sat.

"Are you daft?" was all she managed to ask.

Basch said nothing, and in the darkness she could see his one cheek not caked in blood turn beet red. It would have been endearing if she weren't so angry.

"Oh, so you assume I'm doing this because I've lost so much blood that it's affecting my mind?" He nodded slowly, and she shoved herself off him in a huff. The demon stood on its haunches, setting the warm water to splash and quake. "You insufferable…"

"My lady…" he began, but was seized by a spasm of pain. She watched helplessly as the hand on his chest tightened, knuckles white beneath the red, clasping desperately, until all motion stopped but the unsteady rise and fall of his chest.

"Basch? Basch!" Ashe called, shaking him. She stopped as she too was claimed by a fit of coughing. Covering her mouth with her hands, she pulled them back to see blood dotting her fingers. She stared in wonderment – so very red, the blood was, against her porcelain skin, drained to white under the city streets – until the hacking resumed, this time more violent as blood ran from her mouth and down her chin, seeping into her clothes and dripping to the ground. She collapsed beside Basch, body rocking in terrible tremors, until her head was too clouded to acknowledge the heavy odor of copper and rat dung.

The world turned from blue to red to black as Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca faced her greatest fear: a death filled with regrets.


End file.
